


Acid Rain

by squishyflamingo



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Crushes, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Reader-Insert, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-02-16 00:26:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13042698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squishyflamingo/pseuds/squishyflamingo
Summary: DaylightIn bad dreamsIn a cool worldFull of cruel thingsHang tightAll youNothing like a big bad bridgeTo go burning through





	1. Chapter 1

You leave your entire identity in that prison locker room with nothing but 40 bucks and a commissary card tucked deep into a back jean pocket as the officers escort your mother, several similarly dressed people (no belt, no coats, nothing too tight, no slivers of promiscuous flesh on display, nothing gang related) and yourself like a herded flock to the black sheeps that will be penned within the penitentiary’s visitor room.

The black sheep you had come for was your older brother.

If only they had known about the wolf in sheep’s clothing, prowling through the halls, seeking whom it may devour.

The visitor’s room is small, clinical, nondescript. It hosts a machine to put cash onto the commissary cards, a few vending machines to use the cards on, and some games (like Scrabble) piecemealed out by one of the COs stationed at a desk, their eyes sharp, every object that could potentially double as a weapon taken out of the game boxes.

But you cannot let this get you off kilter, and when you see your sibling being led to you in ill-fitting blues (more lean and sallow than you’ve ever seen him before) mom and you forget these foreign walls, the stifling atmosphere, and you’re allowed to embrace him.

His right arm comes up under your shoulders, strong fingers gripping you as if you’ll disappear into each other, away from this place. Fuck, that’d be a perfect miracle.

You pull away, watching mom surreptitiously wipe her cheeks and put on that brave façade she’s tried erecting around her sorrow the last few months for your step-father, step-brother and your sake. It hurts to think that she’s taken on the weight of everything by herself and not confided in you, her only daughter.

Your brother interrupts your thoughts, attempting to smile (but it’s a ghost of its former cheeky glory) as everyone sits at a designated table with him particularly placed so that the COs can see him, “You actually started running.”

It’s a proud statement, and you flush with a half-cocked grin. Your mother mirrors the expression on his face. You’d told him during a weekly phone call, but actually seeing you makes it believable. You’ve slimmed down a bit, not a startling amount, but enough that he's taken notice.

Conversation launches from there, about Ed (your step-brother) and his hilarious adventures in art college, and James (your step-dad) setting up an event at the Riverdale historical building.

And although there’s a painful sweetness that heals you, as you had been the three musketeers before mom was remarried, your gaze continues to catch your brother’s because there is so much you want to say. However, after every look he silently communicates to leave it be, just like the night of his sentencing.

The practiced words that he’d coached you to repeat when you’d testified - shaking in the witness stand when you should’ve been where your brother was, handcuffed and facing judgement for your mortal sins.

Before anyone realizes it 4 hours have escaped your collective grasp. As if you can buy back time you go slow like molasses, packing Uno away, bringing it back to a new but equally stone faced CO on shift. Mom is fussing over your brother when you get back, whispering amongst themselves, so you hang back to give them privacy. Then you quickly take her place, want to take his place, god you want so much.

The crook of his neck is home.

‘I love yous’ are exchanged.

You leave him, for what seems the umpteenth time. It won’t be the last.

Back in the locker room your state ID is a foreign piece of plastic. You sigh, giving up the ghost for now, but as you put the card into your back pocket there’s something already there that doesn’t feel like money. Your brow furrows, confused, as you do remember at one point when you went to put another 5 bucks on the commissary card you’d dropped a couple of dollars. Your brother had picked them up, tucking them back into your pocket and poking fun at your clumsiness.

There was a small, crumpled piece of paper with the lightest of handwriting on it.

“You still have a lot of time to make yourself be what you want. There’s still a lot of good in the world."

Johnny Cade...from The Outsiders. One of your all-time favorite films. Damn him.

On the lengthy ride back to Riverdale your mind wanders to when you’d first come back home after it all.  
\----  
Shane Y/L/N.

He’d been part of track and field, a decent and beloved speedster, trouncing short distance and sprints like Hermes himself.

Following your brother being put into custody back in April, when you felt out of your skin and had isolated yourself from everyone at Riverdale High - fearful of an endless stream of questions and suspicious looks in the hall - you’d stopped comfort eating, sleeping endlessly, skipping class (your parents barely put up a fuss, always calling you out sick) and had dug through some forgotten boxes of your brother’s old things that were in his room, things he hadn’t taken to college, and borrowed his running gear.

As tight as the clothes were on your body, (a body you were barely attached to these days as your mind was elsewhere) as big as his shoes were, you set off one Sunday morning (well, morning by your standards at 9AM) with your parents’ twin masks of shock over their coffees left in your wake.

It was a labored pace, nothing like the way Shane would spring forward from starting position at the track meets you’d support him at, like a race horse out the gate, eyes focused and lips parted to breathe.

It’s always inspired you to see him like that, so sure of his abilities, of his potential in that moment.

But, despite the stitch in your side and the tightness in your chest, you only let yourself walk for maybe 5 minutes at a time before pushing forward, blood rushing and drowning out the music playing through your headphones. The syncopated beats between feet hitting the street and heart thudding against ribs were oddly grounding, passing the library, the Register, a metallic tang of bile in the back of your throat.

Then it’s there - the image burned behind your retinas, the one that’s been haunting you, eating away at you since Spring Break.

You end up on a bench in Pickens Park, a thankfully warm spring day as sunlight softly hits your forehead while you catch your breath. A quick glimpse at your phone (tucked away into holder strapped to your arm) says 10AM. You’ve been doing this for an hour.

Again. Even further. You couldn’t really run from the guilt plaguing you, but you could punish yourself.

Which you did, until sweaty, smelly, red-faced but mildly victorious as endorphins made you feel more tethered to Earth than you had in ages, you enter Pop’s Chock’lit Shoppe. The bell on the door heralds your entrance - Terry “Pop” Tate himself notices you as he rings up an order at the till. His air is unassuming, despite none of your family having graced his establishment in what seems eons.

“Cookies ‘n cream?” he queries, gentle age lines lifting in a smile.

Could it be that easy? To try and go back to the way things were, soaking in the colorful halogen lights and nostalgia. You didn’t feel like you deserved your usual cookies ‘n cream milkshake. Being here just eased enough of the pain, the self-flagellation.

“It’s on me,” chimes in a familiar voice, causing you to jump a little.

Of course Jughead Jones was here - the young man was as much of a permanent fixture to Pop’s as the crown beanie on his own head. (Where had he scrounged that thing up from, anyhow? The sale section in the pits of a Hot Topic? It'd been with him since time immemorial)

Number 1 patron of the Chock’lit Shoppe, anti-socialite, ex-member of the high school Cinephile Club (after snagging a sweet gig at the a Twilight Drive-In, the lucky bastard). Reluctant friend of sorts.

You’d ghosted on quite a few important people that made up your life, and he’d been no exception. Your cellphone had been left off for a week, and you shuddered to think of the voicemails or texts missed from Geri, Dilton, Ethel...even American Dream Betty Cooper had stopped by with a neatly organized folder of homework you’d missed out on. Mom had said you were thankful. And when mom had told you she'd stopped by, you had been.

Jughead doesn’t bat an eyelash within the confines of his booth haunt, laptop open.

You have to huff out of laugh, incredulous at yourself. Somehow this particular picture he makes is consoling. “I've only been out of school a week, right? I didn't sleep myself into another timeline where suddenly Forsythe Pendleton Jones, third of his name, is offering to cover for my milkshake?”

He finally picks his head up, pinning you with a look that clearly states, “you want the damn milkshake or not, woman?” Instead, he indicates to sit.

A young man that did not waste or mince words, so when he did speak the world listened.

You slide in with the tasty, gratifying milkshake, suddenly self-conscious of your appearance, and it’s like your classmate immediately picks up on it as he flicks his attention to you and says, “If I remember correctly you and I both have the highest record of falsified gym excuses this side of the continental U.S.”

Jughead translation: Running, really? How passé.

You stutter, “I-I was thinking of finally joining an extracurricular other than Cinephile Club. Y’know, looks good on school applications if I join track.” Great, Y/N, are you convincing Jug or yourself?

He senses this, but doesn’t press it, instead changing the subject as he devours fries at an alarming rate. “Shane must’ve lured you into his cult. How’re your brothers doing?”

Wait. Why wasn’t he asking about your suspicious absence? Especially after you’d been “sick” for 5 days, and on the 7th day the Lord said Y/N L/N is cured, go forth and run/walk for nearly 2 hours for the first time in your life? Had no one really heard about what had happened, or did Jughead want to hear it for himself? Surely Betty’s mom had been eyeballs deep in your family’s dirty laundry because she’d gotten some sort of tip-off...right?

Out of nowhere your ribs ache, like they’re collapsing in on each other. The crushing weight of anxiety hits all at once as you’re brought back to reality from an almost reprieve.

Jughead notices you're breathing fast, cussing as he slips from his side of the booth to you, his hands reaching toward you uselessly, voice soft, “I was trying to be tactful for once, and apparently you thought you were in a scene from Body Snatchers. Not that I blame you. Betty gleaned a little bit of what happened. Your mom, though, was apparently on a warpath and may have threatened Mrs. Cooper as word hasn't made it far…”

You choke back a sob, embarrassed by making an absolute ugly crying face in front of someone you respect and have known for nearly a decade. “I'm so sorry. I didn't know how to...to tell anyone. I just. I shut down, I-”

Jughead seems to get over his reticence for displaying comforting behavior in public, takes your hand and anchors you again.

He doesn't offer empty platitudes, he doesn't freak out or pretend he knows how to fix the problem, though he does wait until you're breathing normally again. “Come on, I'll walk you home.”

You go without much coaxing, back to being a marionette doll needing a puppeteer to live, and in what seems like an instant you're on Cedar Ave. Had you even said a word between one another since you'd left Pop’s?

Jughead shifts his laptop bag, brushing a few rebellious strands of dark hair from his brow, but remains silent.

Ugh.

Fucking reverse psychology at its finest, the clever bitch.

“Shane...we met for Spring Break, ‘cause ours somehow matched up, but Eddy's didn't. And…Shane’d been acting weird - dodging my calls, taking days to respond to texts when usually he’s sending me memes on the hour. So I thought, ‘I get that he’s...he’s been maturing and doesn’t need his Arrested Development sister bogging him down with some boring road trip to see famous places from our favorite movies-””

It rushes out as complete word vomit, and you have to stop yourself from doing something irreparable to your tenuous friendship before he knows - oh god, Jughead of all people cannot know.

And your classmate is now unsure of how to respond to this outburst, white-knuckling his bag strap.

“Shit. I really...shouldn’t say much more. Not until Shane’s next hearing. Somewhere our lawyer is probably having a panic attack. But, I...I’m glad you were the first person I’ve run into since…”

A large palm covers your hair. You freeze, staring at Jughead. He doesn’t give you a condescending pat or make any other move. God, it’s sort of...nice. These simple touches.

“Take your time with this. I’ll be there at school tomorrow, as long as nothing sets you off and you go Carrie on Riverdale High. You might get a few stares, but there’s not enough solid intel for the student body to do their usual Inquisition interrogations. Blink to let me know you didn’t just stroke out.”

You blink rapidly, and actually find yourself laughing through hot tears, and muster enough of your old sass to playfully push Jughead away.

His half-cocked smirk is better than 100 cookies’ n cream milkshakes during an idyllic 70 degree day at a drive-in.

“There she is. Was thinking maybe YOU had been body snatched. Call Geri, by the way, otherwise she’s gonna actually bust your door down soon. And I know you don't like unloading about problems on your mom ‘cause she gets that enough at her job, but she's your mother first before she's a therapist. She may even need you.”

Oh my summer child. You are too wise for your age. If only.

“Thanks Jug.”  
\----

The rest of your freshman year is more or less uneventful. You sheepishly sneak back into Riverdale High like a celeb evading paparazzi, popping back into your day-to-day routine.

You did, in fact, call Geri. And after giving the best outline possible without implementing your role explicitly, she goes from Joyce Byers-just-lost-her-son from Stranger Things season 1 to Joyce-Byers-found-Will-in-the-Upsidedown season 1.

Cinephile Club resumes with Ethel and Dilton getting the same low down, but that causes them to suggest movies like The Fugitive or The Maltese Falcon.

Dilton claims with utmost authority and conviction any boy scout contains that Shane was framed.

You smile sadly. You shouldn't have sequestered yourself from your friends, but they get that you needed space.

Still, maybe a handful of students can't meet your eyes and whisper behind your back.

You think of Jughead saying your mother put Alice Cooper's dubious journalist moral compass (or lack thereof) in its place.

In the school lounge the last day of Freshman year, Archie Andrews sits next to you on one of the ancient but unlawfully cozy couches and offers up time over the summer to hang out.

Aw shucks, Archie Andrews. Bless your stars.

You'd never been too close, not as close as Jughead and you were, but after elementary school your junior high days were filled with blissful lunch table memories that sometimes contained Geri, Ethel, Dilton and kids that ended up in Greendale with cameo appearances from Jughead, Betty, Kevin and Archie.

All of the same kids that always seemed to orbit each other, no matter what high school clique they'd been sorted in, never got fully knocked out of that orbit.

Summer begins.

Archie is put to work by his father at Andrews Construction. You meet up at Pop’s maybe twice - of all things you mostly discuss good movie scores. Jughead joins you the second time, fantastically sardonic as always, but keeping you in his peripheral.

It's unnerving. He sees right through you. He doesn't bring it up, that he knows there's more to Shane’s situation, though you bury the paranoia and have a heated debate about the From Dusk ‘Til Dawn movies vs the TV series.

Jughead begrudgingly concedes to your points.

Underneath the table he nudges your knee.

The last thing he talks about is the camping trip Archie and he are gonna go on.

Then you don't hear from either them.

August 21st, 2017

First Monday of Sophmore year.

When the student body walks through the threshold of the front school doors you are somehow more than less the hot topic of the millenia.

You cringe at the fact that you're grateful other drama has eclipsed yours. Even if it's the drowning of one Golden Boy Jason Blossom and the subsequent arrival of former Gossip Girl debutante, Veronica Lodge.

Shane calls you that evening and it's only 5 ominous words, swiftly followed by a dial tone.

"Look after the new girl."


	2. Chapter 2

Veronica Lodge is and is not what you expect.

A product of her parents, certainly, but the young woman has tried to separate herself from several black marks her father has presented. One Hiram Lodge, who was in (presumably) federal prison for his misdeeds, which entailed not only squandering, but also laundering, money.

Yes, Veronica had brows that were on fleek, nails that slayed, several closets full of clothing a la Sabrina Fairchild without having to go to culinary school in Paris, and purses that made your armpits sweat as they cost as much as one class of college your parents had squirreled away for your future.

But you saw how she gravitated to saccharine Betty Cooper and not sultry Cheryl Blossom, how she’d swan into Pop’s dressed to the nines, only to grin with almost childish indecency to herself at the very thought of the diner’s famous onion rings.

At that very moment you blended into the shadows of the gymnasium bleachers while Veronica and Betty took on Cheryl Blossom together to both be inducted into the prestigious River Vixens.

Huh.

How very Taylor Swift of you, Veronica Lodge, to be friends with one human woman and not the Riverdale High’s Stepford Wives. Ok, that was unnecessarily harsh. Cheryl’s brother (twin) was dead - if it’d been Eddy or Shane you’d be in bits. The ginger tyrant was just making it very difficult to be sympathetic.

You do feel awkward sitting there, though, as you’d meant to stay and speak to the track coach, confirm that indoor track will most likely start in January, and when to take the physical exam that was required. Morbid curiosity and your brother’s words ringing in your skull lured you here.

He hadn’t reached back out to you, or at least, called back when you weren’t at school. Mom used the addition behind the house as an office, so her clients came to her there. She could easily take his calls on her personal cell phone between appointments. Shane could be purposefully avoiding you…

But that seemed more strange then, to call you directly, asking you to “look after the new girl” only to go completely MIA since you couldn’t call _him_.

Then an idea struck you. Holy shit. There was no way that Veronica’s father...was involved with the man that you and Shane had--

“This is some dubious reconnaissance, even by my standards.”

You almost fall between the bleacher seats, choking on your own spit.

Jughead has surprisingly quick reflexes, grabbing a wrist to haul you back upright, and he shakes his head. “Geez, nearly a Darwin award winner just then. From Jughead to Archie in .5 seconds. So, why WERE you pulling a me?”

It’s been 3 months sans communication with him. Your summer had been daily runs, a few sleepovers with Ethel and Geri, and your preoccupation of that fateful Spring Break week. You’d almost forgotten about being disheartened by Jughead’s lack of contact.

On the flipside, he’d given you space; time to compartmentalize the Lemony Snicket that had transpired, and that must have been a struggle for him to keep mum about with how intuitive he was.

You look down at him still clutching your wrist, a gentle hold, then your eyes meet - his forest green irises are soft, a furrowed brow betraying his worry. You begin to say-

“Really, Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love - I’d suggest next time you’re trying to creep on the Vixens with your grunge-filled plotting that you’re a bit more subtle,” Cheryl Blossom herself sneers from the now vacated gym floor, kohl-lined glare set to maximum carnage.

She hadn't always been this mean...

Soon enough Jughead and you have escaped her wrath.

“You probably don't remember, but you once said I might go Carrie on Riverdale High. I’m passing that torch to Cheryl. She’s a bucket of pig’s blood away from burning this place to the ground,” you manage out through peels of giggling.

Jughead, who was valiantly attempting to keep it together, barks out a laugh that echoes through the school hallways.

\----

You pass on the back-to-school dance, even if Dilton was sweet enough to ask you to it - he takes Ethel, and both are more than delighted to accompany each other.

Geri snags a hot to trot senior as her date, who is a massive chemistry buff. And that can only spell out some fantastic _chemistry_ between them, since Geri drops science puns like it’s going out of style.

Rumor has it that Veronica **and** Betty are going with Archie after what was described as the most bizarre near-confession of a lifetime from Elizabeth Cooper that went awry. Poor Betts - Archie was the sun to her moon - where she softly guided Archie in her moonlight, he warmed her in the rays of his sunshine.

Somewhere Jughead is dry-heaving.

But who knows anymore at this point. When you’d get even a second with the red headed wonder Andrews rarely spoke about Betty these days. His plans used to always involve her, and not that she was constantly implementing herself in them. It was what it was. Now Archie is football and guitar frets - varsity jacket and Takamine on his back.

Things have happened - irrevocable things - to all of your friends. You’ve been so caught up in your own sorrow it’s blinded you. The guilt is a hole in your stomach.

You remember a word you’d learned about in English, written on the whiteboard by Miss Haggly the first day of high school.

**_Sonder. The profound feeling of realizing that everyone, including strangers passed in the street, has a life as complex as one's own, which they are constantly living despite one's personal lack of awareness of it._ **

Had Archie heard from his mother recently? How was Polly Cooper? Her and Jason Blossom had been...Did she know he had drown? Betty must be torn about the entire situation. Darling Kevin Keller had asked how you were the other day and you’d been in your own world, you needed to apologize to him. Jesus, you hadn’t even asked Jughead how Jellybean was, and if his relationship with F.P. was OK.

Selfish moron.

So, on a night where the entirety of Riverdale did their small-town best to carry on with Riverdale High’s back-to-school shindig despite bleak uncertainty and vulnerability you advise your parents you’ve gone out to meet some friends going to Pop’s after the dance.

And you start your road to redemption with Jughead Jones himself.

Thankfully, when you ask him to meet up with you it only takes him 20 minutes to respond.

**_I told you not to contact me at this number._ **

You snort.

**_Calm down Jerry Fletcher. Pop’s??_ **

Jughead is quick to retaliate.

**_Only for you Alice Sutton._ **

A sudden, fierce blush shoots up your neck and face. You huff, typing back, **_Yes, food is on me. No need to butter me up._**

As soon as the message is sent you wonder if that was too suggestive sounding, but calling you Alice Sutton…you hadn’t expected that. You don’t look at your phone again on your way to the diner, headphones in and resisting the urge to jog the rest of the way.

Upon arrival at the local hot spot its welcoming ambiance wraps you up and carries you to your usual table, hyper-aware of the squeak of the seat, vinyl under your fingertips, fryer oil saturating your senses and Pops asking why you’re not at the dance.

What a dearheart.

An order for 2 specials goes in, and you bring out a notebook. You’ve been slowly penning in details of what went on with Shane, because...because you want - no - you need someone to understand. You’ve spoken to your mother, and per your lawyer you should not be divulging anything to anyone (which is common sense), but Jughead...he...you…

Your head hits the table. Buried beneath the tumultuous uncertainty you’d always had feelings for him. Feelings that weren’t fully parsed out yet as truly romantic or just young first love, but they were there to stay.

The odds of him being reciprocal were slim, as Jughead was a 16 going on 30-year-old bachelor. He'd maybe had a “girlfriend” in elementary school, Trula Twyst, and after that he'd remained quite separate from entanglements.

You didn't blame him - his own life hadn't ever really been sunshine and lollipops.

“‘Dear diary’,” Jughead mimics (what you assume is) you around a mouthful of fries, as he's appeared out of nowhere and intercepted your waiter to bring your grub over himself, “'Raj thinks he knows more about the motifs in Wes Anderson’s films than I do. That's preposterous. Raj wouldn't know the meaning of motifs or themes if it was tattooed on his-'”

You snatch Jughead’s beanie off his head and softly slap his cheek with it. He mock gasps and takes the beanie back - you weren't trying to stop him from getting it anyway. The both of you start to snicker, desperately trying not to be too loud.

16 going on 30 or not...uninterested in you amorously or not. He would never not be your friend. Or so you ardently hoped, especially after you finally told him the truth.

Although, Steinbeck had it right. Best laid plans of mice and men...

"I swear I'm not asking this in that soul destroying way that adults seem to do, but...what are your plans after high school?" Jughead keeps his focus on you as you answer, as if this is really important to him.

You falter. Only because it was a very un-Jughead-like question. He was more about the here and now. Occasionally dwelling in nostalgia. You do have an answer for him, so you set your notebook aside.

"Art history, historian or art restoration. I'm actually thinking of trying to do some sort of apprenticeship where my stepfather works this summer, if they allow it. Sorta like what Betty did. I love preserving the past in a way, I guess? Celebrating it, teaching it, continuing to learn from it-" You realize you're babbling, flailing your arms around to dismiss your silly diatribe, "What about you?"

He's grinning sweetly, taking a long, noisy pull of his milkshake. The punk builds a healthy dose of suspense, until you're about to steal his milkshake away, and he begins, "I started writing. I know, contain yourself. I wanted to chronicle this place. So that I can…I don’t know. Solve it? Understand it better? I’ve lived here all my life and ever since Jason died I don’t know it so well. Or the people. Or myself.”

Jughead presses his lips shut until they’re a pale, thin line of chagrin. He’s shared too much. You reach across the table, small digits trying to pry his apart from their knot. “We all want to understand ourselves more. Especially when we think we’ve got it all figured out. It feels good that you still..still consider me someone you can open up to. It’s been…”

The young man nods in agreement to what's unspoken.

“How’s Bean?”

Jughead peers up through those surprisingly long lashes, mouth soft. “Intolerable.”

Jughead translation: Her usual fantastic self.

“Gladys?”

“Mom's been more forgiving about her and dad’s separation, at least.”

“F.P.?”

Jughead wants to close off at the mention of his father, making a Herculean effort to grind out, “200 steps backwards.”

Shit.

“Thank you, Jug. Y’know I’m here for you. Like you’ve always been for me.” When his hands relax you place your notebook into it. “If you have any questions, write it.”

The perplexity visible on him is replaced by shock as he glimpses the first few lines of what you’ve written. He starts to argue, but you shut him down until he picks it back up again.

_The drive upstate with Shane is eerily quiet._

_Just like every other interaction we've had as of late. I clutch my overnight bag in my lap, uncertain of what to say. The tension is ridiculous and he’s so on edge I’m afraid the poor bastard is going to spring out the car window._

_Shane doesn’t get nervous - not even when he reached track regionals, had his film class final shown at the Riverdale Film Festival, or was asked out by Kim Wong (although he turned into a lovestruck little school boy - it’s too bad they didn’t last)._

_So, safe to say, Shane being cagey puts me on high alert. My paranoia is at its zenith - I’ve transcended calm and common sense to a rabbit hole of delusion._

_Did he get a girl pregnant?_

_Is he failing out of college?_

_Or, alternatively, he made the Dean’s List?_

_Billy Murray crashed one of his frat parties and he doesn’t know how to deal with it?_

_Our movie location road trip seems more like a pipe dream now - we were going to start from the Ghostbusters fire station in Manhattan, New York to the 10 Things I Hate About You Stadium High School in Tacoma, Washington._

_My gut instinct is pretty good._

_We pull off the interstate to an itty bitty storefront cafe simply named Caffe Macchiato. It’s not Pop’s, but it’s more inviting than my own brother’s current mood._

_I speak to our kind waitress more than I do Shane - our coffee and breakfast comes via mismatched antique plates._

_“What the hell is going on?” I finally hiss at him, trepidation bubbling up._

_He begs that I keep it down, as I was not being as quiet as I’d meant to be. No one needs us hashing this out at a breakfast bistro. He leans back, stares at the old style tin ceiling tiles, and tells me...mostly everything._

_Back in Riverdale, before he’d left for college, he’d been approached. For “recruitment”. At first I thought marines, army, one of those booths with stoic, uniformed men seeking juniors and seniors unsure of their next steps, seeking discipline, maybe forced into it…_

_No. He means the Southside Serpents._

_**When did they come to him? Why?** _ Jughead frantically writes with the only pen he has available.

You take back the notebook, somber as you request the same pen to answer.

_**Please keep reading.** _

Jughead’s nostrils flare, composing himself to the best of his ability. But he reads on.

You breathe out.

_“I don’t understand,” is all I say. I don’t._

_“This is going to sound ludicrous,” Shane can’t look at me. “I’m in their debt. I can’t say more than that. What I can say is picking you up hasn’t been my latest trip back down state.”_

_It’s difficult to recall what I said, but I must’ve started cursing up a blue streak as he’s shushing me again until I've cooled off, but I grab him, trying to unveil some sort of proof that he’d really joined them, like a fucking idiot - and it’s there. Yanking down the neckline of his t-shirt, the Southside Serpents S is branded on his left pec._

_I don’t hate them, the Serpents. They leave most of Riverdale well enough alone, or Sheriff Keller and his men would've had more to pounce on. A sort of stealing from the rich to give to the poor while also defacing a few buildings sort of agenda. Hell, I run through Pickens Park still and contemplate going to see movies at Twilight Drive-In by myself all the time. I’d gone to see Jughead at Sunnyside Trailer Park when I was 10, on my bike. My mother had smacked my ass hard enough for my future ancestors to feel it. The stigma of Riverdale south of the tracks is asinine, outdated, flawed. It did nothing but marginalize and segregate like we were back in the 1950s._

_But when you ran with the Serpents your life expectancy definitely took a blow._

_I have a thousand questions._

_After that it tumbles out that Shane had been trying so hard to get out, and the Serpents noticed. He’d been nothing but loyal to their Robin Hood cause, paying back this mysterious debt. One thing stopping them from continuing their campaign and way of life was a rival gang encroaching on their territory, tormenting the occupants of Sunnyside_ [Jughead looks ill] _, borderline mutilating people outside of the White Wyrm._

_Shane’s been tasked to infiltrate this rival gang. His reward is a clean slate, to walk away from it all. They wanted it done soon._

_So, of course I was insane and incensed enough to demand that I help him. When he tells me no I threaten to call mom, Ed or James._

_I had no clue what I was getting myself into._

“Y/N,” Jughead chokes out.

You gasp, having been just about praying the entire duration.

“Y/N, this is...a lot. This is...I can’t even imagine...You should go home. I’ll...I’ll finish what you’ve written soon. But right now there’s so many other things racing through my head right now about Arch and-”

You are humiliated. You feel rejected, though not in the typical sense of rejection. Dismissed is apt. It's taken so much to get you to this point. None of your dearest and nearest friends knew the whole story and you had wanted so badly to finally bleed the poison from this wound.

Jughead doesn’t follow you when you run away, quite literally, all of the way back home until your lungs are fit to burst.

Elizabeth Cooper is heartbroken. Archie Andrews is conflicted. Veronica Lodge is possessed by her old demons. Kevin Keller is just trying to get laid.

Jason Blossom washes up on the Riverdale side of Sweetwater River with a bullet in him.


	3. Chapter 3

_Cheryl **really** hadn’t always been so mean._

_A bit privileged and a gift for dramatics, but Cheryl Blossom had once upon a time been a good girl._

_It’s just that none of the other children thought that, and a jealous child can be exceptionally cruel._

_You were 8 years old. It’s recess, so naturally your entire 3rd grade class was playing hide-and-go-seek._

_The big, bright red, plastic tunnel is always your favorite spot, as ever since there was a monstrous beehive in there (but it's been gone for ages) no one dares to hide in the tunnel anymore._

_Part of you hopes your new friend Jughead hides there as well, but he never comes, so you stretch out on your back in boredom, waiting to be discovered._

_Suddenly, you hear rapid footsteps approaching, and you tense up thinking it’s Betty (who is currently it). You smile, wanting to give her a good scare when she pokes her head in to look, but you are startled when it’s Cheryl - with dirt smeared all over her face._

_She is swallowing her sobs while crawling in, pretty ivory dress in a sad state, not even glancing your way as her knobbly, freckled knees pull under her chin until she’s as small as possible. She manages, “Please don’t tell them I’m here.”_

_You adore her hair - it’s the loveliest thing you’ve ever seen, and you hate that it's ruined because of who bullied her._

_You scoot on your bottom next to the other girl, arm going around her shoulders. You’re not friends, really, but she leans into you._

_How bizarre that she hadn’t outright demanded you to buzz off - you were from Billings, Montana, and though your accent was subtle, you had initially been subject to a bit of juvenile teasing yourself when you’d moved to Riverdale._

_“Where’s Jason?” you ask, more surprised that her twin hasn’t rode in on a horse to save her._

_“He’s g-gone,” Cheryl sighs out shakily, enigmatically. “He left me. They called me a..w-witch, threw rocks, pushed me d-down.”_

_“Are you? A witch?”_

_The pretty, petty princess makes a face, unsure of how to answer you, then holds up her small, lily-white hand._

_The acrid smell of smoke hits you as it lights on fire, quickly engulfing both of you in flames._

And you wake up in a tangle of blankets on the floor, sweaty, shocked and so confused. That was not how that moment had gone, so many years ago.

But dreams were memory dumps, right? Taking things that have happened, things you have heard in passing, things you’ve only entertained the idea of, organizing them during REM sleep like disjointed movie film reels spliced together.

It’s the 2nd time you’ve had this hybrid nightmare/dream since Jason Blossom’s corpse was found a week ago. Damn, only a week. You’d witnessed the fall of Troy itself, and it feels like a lifetime ago.

Cheryl’s breakdown at the pep rally in her brother’s honor, getting arrested for lying about Jason drowning, Archie being questioned by Sheriff Keller about being near Sweetwater when the elusive gunshot was heard around Riverdale, but also heard by no one.

Jason’s time of death actually being a week after the Fourth of July.

What the hell had actually happened to the Blossom boy?

Chuck Clayton was not doing anyone favors, per usual, being a machismo pig. The jury was still out on Veronica, but no one deserved to have their sexuality smeared around, whether they'd never had sex or had a fucked a Guinness World Record of people.

Which reminds you, today is Sunday, right? You’re dead set on finding out more about the Lodge family, praying it will connect some dots to present to Shane’s lawyer.

It takes you quite some time to fully reassert yourself into the waking world, cross-legged on the floor and leaning against your bed, furls of sunlight trying to pry your eyes open.

Mom and James are out, spending quality time together. You especially don’t blame your mother for needing a reprieve. The school’s counsellor Mr. Jenkins has been burning a candle at both ends, speaking to students affected by the most recent update in the Blossom case, sympathetic to how traumatic the new development was to the town.

Since he’s been bombarded mom and a few other mental health practices offered services for free.

Needless to say it’s been rough for everyone.

Going through your morning ablutions, a bowl of steel cut oatmeal with an obscene amount of fruit, 2 cups of coffee and slap to the face later you’re ready to go, struggling to pull on a hoodie as you leave out the front door.

Your vision is obscured by the garment, a rush of dread going through you as your foot hits uneven ground on the steps going down into the street. Thankfully you only fall on your ass, which has plenty of cushion.

Doesn’t stop it from smarting pretty damn badly, though.

Once your hoodie is pulled all the way on you scope out what you’d tripped over.

What the…A tiny, innocuous potpourri bag. You pick it up, fingering the muslin material. Upon loosening the drawstring you recognize a few items, like dried lavender, rose petals...there’s something hard in it as well. A stone - black as pitch, smooth on one side and a raw edge on the other.

Where had this thing even been? The gladiolus flower pot? Some of the bag’s contents had spilled out and lead...into the house.

The pouch falls to the ground.

What the FUCK. You give the herbs a wide berth, open the door again, searching everywhere until you spot a nail hammered into the top right corner of the doorframe. Where it must have been hung up.

Perhaps you bumped it when you were flailing around, getting dressed?

Um, great - surely your parents weren’t participating in neo-paganism out of nowhere, so _someone_ had _somehow_ gotten into your house and put that there. Coupled with the messed up Carrie/Cheryl nightmare...

“Y/N? You alright?”

Jughead.

Of course, you haven’t said a peep to each other, but let’s make a house call right when you’re trying to do some sleuthing, then you find a puzzling goodie bag of toil and trouble; why not throw in Jughead “Don’t Make That Concerned Face at Me” Jones!

“Uh, hey. Yeah, doing good. In a hurry - dropped my dime bag like a klutz! Losing my weed and my mind. Women, am I right?”

_Don’t bring up the notebook, don’t bring up the notebook!_

Jughead rolls his eyes at your sad attempt at diverting his attention. You’d never smoked, you were not about to smoke, and he knew this. He also knew, without a doubt, you were a godawful liar and comes up the flagstone walkway, snatches up the pouch, pushing you back through your home by your shoulders.

“We gotta talk.”

_Gulp_.

\-----  
_The next couple of days are a blur. I have a single-minded vision to get us in and get us the hell out of Dodge, as it were._

_This gang is from Greendale, of all places. They’re call The Garou. As in, loup-garou. Werewolf. What in the actual fresh hell. It still makes me shake my head in incomprehension._

_I had thought it was good that we were only going to dig up dirt and exploit any weaknesses that could give the Serpents an advantage, because reports of mutilation and a moniker like Garou?_

_Shane’s...“connections” help us find their main hangout. The Garou are often seen at a place called Eve’s Diner, and nearby that is a dilapidated, fenced off gas station._

_We head down to Greendale and book a room at a motel. On a shitty full size mattress is where it all hits me. This is not some sort of cop drama dream or Martin Scorsese fantasy, but reality. The haze of my anger has faded and I’m a 15-year-old girl with her 19-year-old brother about to do something utterly stupid, and our family thinks we’re halfway across the US by now._

_Shane hugs me and has to reassure me now that it’ll all be over soon._

_We haven’t thought this through at all._

_But that night, a night that the Garou are said to be out terrorizing spring breakers unfortunate enough to have chosen to come through their town, we somehow safely pick lock our way into that abandoned gas station behind Eve’s Diner._

_And that’s where our luck abruptly ended._

_“Shane defended me,” is what I testified during Shane’s trial, omitting any knowledge about his gang affiliation (it couldn’t be outright denied with the undeniably permanent proof on his chest). “We had taken a detour in Greendale to see one of his old friends. Went for a bite to eat at Eve’s Diner afterwards. This...huge man jumped us in the parking lot. He was just protecting his little sister.”_

_I also left out that the Garou who stumbled across us in the gas station’s old back office (not Eve’s Diner parking lot) had looked crazed, practically rabid as if he’d stumbled out of the set from 28 Days Later with eyes bulging, spittle and blood on his teeth. Or that I was the one that had killed him._

\-----

Angry red pen marks up the margins of your notebook. Certain words or sentences are underlined and circled. Jughead had not only finished reading your real testimony, but he had read it several times and has much to hash out.

He chomps on leftover lasagna, perched in your computer chair with legs propped on your bed, pinning you there until you answer his many queries. He'd apologized for his callous behaviour at Pop's, dealing with quite a mountain of bullshit on his own plate, but now was giving you his unreserved assistance.

“No, the Serpents haven’t tried to threaten me. Hell, they haven’t even spoken to me at all, but they gotta know all about Shane. Every single sordid detail. I mean...that bizarre bag might have something to do with them.” You push at his boots idly, and murmur, “It _was_ self-defense. You believe that, right? I really thought that Garou guy was gonna kill me. It all happened so damn fast - sometimes I close my eyes and can still his motionless body-”

Jughead has a forkful of lasagna halfway to his mouth, fighting between his infamously never ending hunger and your friendship - he sets the food aside, boots swinging off your lap. He flicks your forehead, quite hard, the brat.

“You were in danger, Y/N. This was a grown man that clearly had homicidal intent from what you found out about the Garou. I’m fuckin’ livid that you and Shane were that _idiotic_ ,” he emphasizes the word, “to even go in the first place.”

Fair enough. You avoid his scrutinizing, “I know, and I’m sorry. You’re not going to like this either, but I think there’s something deeper here than just the Serpents and the Garou. A part of me even wonders...if anything of it has to do with Jason.”

The young man jerks, though not in surprise. More like understanding. He whips out his laptop and types up a few points, agreeing about Veronica’s coincidental appearance and her parents’ history with Riverdale.

There’s a stretch of companionable silence before Jughead flicks his gaze to you. Your entire body seems to clench in anticipation. Lord have mercy. You’d forgotten he hasn’t really been in your room since you were kids.

“There’s something I need your advice on.”

_Moi_? You point to yourself, feigning disbelief.

He snorts, but whatever he is going to say next is interrupted by an alarm on his phone trilling. “Shit, the Taste of Riverdale. Hey, we’ll reconvene on that advice you owe me.”

_You_ owe **him**? Ultra brat!

“Yeah, yeah - oh, hey, before you go. You and Arch alright again?”

Jughead uncharacteristically freezes, putting his belongings away, though that’s replaced by a resigned slump to his shoulders. “Yeah. We will be. After I speak to your friend, Dilton.”

**_Huh?_ **

Jughead has slipped out of your room like a shadow, leaving you to ponder on that one.

Dilton had been questioned by Sheriff Keller since he was with the Rangers at Sweetwater, and had been one of the “witnesses” to hear the gunshot before Cheryl was found.

Your phone goes off. It’s Geri.

**Girl, SOS. There’s trouble in Paradise.**

You’re flying out the door once more, your mind back to the Lodge family, justice for Shane, and totally forgetting about the witch bag left on your pillow.


End file.
